


a scar so deep

by viscidium



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Bonding, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Possible Trigger Warning??, Precious Peter Parker, Scars, Short & Sweet, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 02:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20268298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscidium/pseuds/viscidium
Summary: wade hates his scars. peter loves them.or: two best friends bond on the Hilton's shadowy rooftop at 3 a.m. and then feelings happen.





	a scar so deep

**Author's Note:**

> hi yes i would die for them please appreciate this
> 
> (also i originally posted part of this on a different account but it wasn't getting the attention i wanted so i'm posting the longer version here so don't freak out or anything lmao)

> They're a bit ugly. Grotesque. Like something left too long in the oven. Sometimes, Peter catches glimpses of them under the charred, torn bits of Wade's suit.
> 
> Sometimes, Peter has to stop himself from reaching out and touching.

* * *

Peter left a bit of himself outside the first home he ever knew.

At the time, the city was in the process of renovating most of the sidewalks in the area, a process both necessary and "needlessly annoying," according to Dad. They put those bumpy, red things at the end of the walk, right where it connects with the street. Peter loved to run his hands along the knobby protrusions. It was fun to ride his bike over them and feel the vibrations throughout his whole body.

Mom thought it was cute. Dad wasn't so keen on it. "Odd behavior," he'd described it. Peter wasn't supposed to like touching things. It was weird. But at seven, Peter didn't get it. Parents were enigmas; as long as he did as he was told and didn't sprout an attitude, everything would be fine.

So Peter only played in the street when Dad wasn't around.

Soon after, Mom got fussy about the drive. “It looks beat to hell,” she’d told Dad one night when Peter wasn’t supposed to be listening. Tucked behind the piano, he watched Dad roll his eyes at Mom across the kitchen table. She wanted the driveway redone. It would increase property value. Peter didn’t get it. But at seven, he wasn’t expected to.

The next week, the big trucks came, and workers littered the front lawn like orange and yellow penguins in big, clunky boots. Peter watched in fascination as the wet, sloppy concrete was poured. He liked the way it looked as it piled there, a little mound just about his size before the workers smoothed it out with their tools. He wanted to stick his hands into it. He wanted to touch, to feel it slipping between his fingers. It looked like it was cold. Peter wanted to _feel_.

The workers kept his straying hands away from their work with the promise of trapping him in the goop. Peter didn't like that very much. He obeyed, staying at a reasonable distance until the men packed up their equipment and drove away in their trucks. That was as long as he could take it. As soon as his parents were distracted — Dad with the TV, Mom with the mountains of paperwork on her desk — he snuck back outside in his pajamas.

The concrete was still fresh, still wet when Peter flattened his small hands into the mixture. The funny feeling tickled his nose, his fingertips, his entire body from the splatter of freckles on his cheeks right down to his bare toes. He put those in next. That felt even better.

Mom found him out front, squatting like a monkey with his hands and feet stuck along the edge of the driveway. She told Dad. Peter wasn't allowed out to play for a week.

That was years ago. His little hand and feet prints are probably still out there, outside the first home he ever knew. One of these days Peter would like to return, just to feel the concrete with his hands and his feet again.

Peter doesn’t have a Dad to punish him for it this time.

+++

The desire is there, just under his skin. It itches. He can feel it reaching its talons throughout his body, tainting his blood, seeping into his idle thoughts like black goo. The knowledge of its existence concerns him more than the desire itself, which only concerns him more. The only comfort Peter allows himself is the fact that Wade does not, and _never_ _will_, know of Peter’s... thoughts.

As far as Wade is aware, Peter is disturbed and disgusted by his skin. The miles of scars and lacerations that stretch across his body, the open wounds that Peter wants to sink his fingernails in — Wade has every right to believe it’s unsettling. Sickening, especially if you stop to consider just how some of them came to be. Ugly.

Peter bets the texture is amazing.

It’s probably weird how often he finds himself wondering how Wade’s skin would feel under his fingertips, how many times he’s imagined running his hands over the ridges, the crevices, dipping a finger into the tender healing bits. But he can’t help himself. Doesn’t know how to stop. He’s plagued with a morbid sort of curiosity, the kind that leaves him frustrated and something else he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

He just wants to know how it’d feel. Exposed, vulnerable, laid out before him and begging to be touched — would the scars be soft?

+++

Peter stuffs his third sausage biscuit into his mouth and says, “Fuck you,” with as much feeling as he can muster.

Wade is as contrite as a suicide bomber. He tips over sideways in a fit of laughter and nearly loses his own biscuit over the lip of the building. “I’m just saying! Peter Parker _totally_ gets pegged. I mean, have you seen the guy?”

“He does not,” Peter replies icily and resolutely ignores the imagery.

“Does too.”

“Does _not_.”

How this conversation went from the ills of socialism to Peter’s bedroom preferences is a wonder indeed. Then again, most conversations with Wade tend to derail fairly quickly. But pegging? _Really_?

“Ehhh. Agree to disagree? I just get that vibe from him.”

“Why are you even thinking about this? _Gross_.”

“You saying you _don’t_ have sexual fantasies about your boss?”

“Absolutely not.”

Wade looks at him incredulously. “You’re missing out, Spidey,” he sighs wistfully, crumpling the wrapper to Peter’s biscuit into a ball and chucking it across the street. It misses its target (the erectile dysfunction awareness billboard) by a wide margin. Wade still cheers quietly to himself when it hits a parked car below and sets the alarm off.

Peter’s resulting snort makes Wade kick his feet out in front of him like a little kid, tucking his hands under his thighs and grinning. The untouched biscuit on his lap wobbles dangerously.

“And here you gave me the impression that you hate him. After, you know, you tried to kill him. _Twice_.” Peter flicks a crumb at him.

He tosses his nose in the air. “I can appreciate a fine man when I see one. Unlike _someone_.” He nudges Peter’s shoulder playfully, and Peter nudges him back — a bit too hard because Wade nearly goes toppling off the building. Thankfully, Peter has the sense to grab him by the arm and haul him back. 

Wade blinks the wide, panda eyes of his mask. He never takes it off anymore. "You tryna kill me, Webs?"

Peter’s smile comes unbidden. “If I were trying to do that, you'd have been dead long ago."

Deadpool grins. They both know that would never happen, but neither choose to comment on it.

Deadpool and Spider-Man have become somewhat of a commodity. Wade’s been surprisingly pleasant company on patrols (after a few significant hiccups only smoothed with time and a hefty amount of ice cream). They’ve built up a nice little routine: Spidey and DP fight bad guys, DP kills someone, Spidey gets mad, DP somehow gets Peter to forgive him, they go out for greasy takeout, and all's hunky-dory in Spideypool land again—wash, rinse, repeat. Except nowadays there’s been a lot less killing on Deadpool’s part. Peter’s optimistic. This could be real change happening, and with the way everything else in his life is currently going, it’s nice to have at least this _one thing_.

Even the local mucks have begun to recognize that _yes, Deadpool and Spider-Man are two separate entities not to be confused_ (“no, that’s the other one—Deadpool. _That’s_ the one that’ll kill you if you touch the spider.”). They’ve come to appreciate the murderous red shadow that hangs behind Spidey.

Peter was wary at first. When a mercenary with a kill list longer than Avengers tower comes to you asking to be taught in the ways of the force, you’d be crazy not to be suspicious. Because come on: it’s _Deadpool_. He’s the Kylo Ren to Peter’s Rey (as slightly disturbing as that may be); he’s just... not a good guy.

Except Wade might be the best guy Peter’s known in a while.

He glances at the man out of the corner of his eye; he’s picking at a tear in his suit. A bullet hole. A second-rate thug got the drop on him mid-drug bust. A freak shot. Though, Peter’s noticed he’s been acquiring more and more of these “freak shots” lately. 

Peter's gaze tracks down Wade's body to his thigh. The bullet hole is just big enough for Peter to see a bit of the skin beneath. The lack of blood would be sufficiently unsettling even without the wound quite literally sewing itself back together, bullet and all. Peter's seen his fair share of healing factors, Wolverine’s included, but he's never known anyone to suck a bullet into their body and _forget about it._

Yet here Wade sits.

Peter wants to strip him naked.

Anyway.

He pats Wade’s shoulder awkwardly because _yay, comradery_. He rubs biscuit crumbs from his chin. “You gonna eat that?” he gestures to Wade’s lap. He’s already eaten three biscuits, but _advanced metabolism_ and all that. He needs to stay on top of eating but can’t seem to make the time between his day job and nighttime extracurriculars. It’s Wade that forces him to eat, buys him food like he’s still a financially struggling college student and not the millionaire CEO Peter Parker of Parker Industries. Hell, he lives in a fucking penthouse.

Peter appreciates it more than Wade could ever know. Sometimes, Peter gets brief glimpses of the man Wade hides behind his suit, the soul under the jokes and the pain. Sometimes, Peter gets a taste, and it's _addicting_. One of the things Wade hides (or maybe others fail to accept) is how considerate he truly is. He's the most self-sacrificing idiot Peter's ever met. And that's waking up to _Peter Parker’s_ face in the mirror every morning.

Wade looks down at the sorry excuse of a sausage biscuit and shrugs. “Not hungry,” he mutters.

"What, you on a diet or something?" Peter can't help but giggle at the thought. “Big Baddie Deadpool is health-conscious and shops at _Whole Foods_. What, you bake cupcakes for the kids’ soccer games too?”

Wade pinches his thigh, and Peter squeaks despite himself. "Fuck you, arachnid brat. We're getting old. Not all of us have a killer metabolism like you, kid." He pats his stomach bulge with a sad little pout.

Peter has to force his smile away. Wade doesn't look a day over thirty.

Well, maybe if he spent those thirty years in hell.

Wade gently places the biscuit on Peter’s lap. “Happy birthday,” he whispers.

“Aw, how’d you know?”

“Lucky guess? Totally didn’t stalk your Facebook page.”

“If you had, you’d know I don’t like presents.”

“Bull. Who doesn’t like presents? Especially Spider-Man!”

Peter just sits and stares at him. He’s such an odd man. Both of them are. Peter should be asleep in his bed, preparing for the long, exhausting day of board meetings ahead of him, but here he is; eating sausage biscuits with Wade Wilson on the Hilton's shadowy rooftop at three a.m.

"Hey, you aren't so bad," Peter says, apropos of nothing.

Wade side-eyes him. "Gee thanks, Spidey."

"No, I mean it," he chuckles. "You're a great partner. Sure, we fight a lot, and you're still an _idiot_, but I like you. Plus, you buy me food, so a guy can't really complain." He doesn't have the courage to say what he really wants to (_I'm sorry I doubted you. I'm sorry I made this so hard for you when you only wanted to better yourself. I'm sorry I'm the only positive influence in your life. I'm sorry you're stuck with me and that I don't really feel bad about it. I'm sorry I'm a shitty friend.) _so he settles on this instead, like the coward he is.

Wade is quiet for a long moment. It isn't until Peter's beginning to think he's moved on, forgotten the exchange and jumped topics like only Wade Wilson can, that his hand darts out and grabs Peter's. He looks into Peter's eyes, clutches his hand tight, body hunched in on itself like he's scared of being pushed away. It's while holding Peter's hand that Wade tells him the truth, the quiet realization that's been clouding the edge of Peter's thoughts since the beginning of time. The reality he hasn't wanted to face. Not alone.

"I wouldn't be here without you. And I mean that. I care about you."

He’s overcome with a long-forgotten emotion. Deep within his sleeping anatomy, something blinks awake. A lurking beast satiated through preservation and willpower. The roar of a song lost in time. It pushes against his ribs, against his chest, the prison of meat it's trapped within.

Suddenly, Peter's seven all over again, his hands and feet stuck in something deliciously cool and new. Only this time, he wants to feel more.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if u liked this p- please *crying noises*


End file.
